#Emotional Repression

[samazing0831]

How to Break a Curse - Fred Weasley x Reader

Fred Weasley has always known how to flirt - except with you. Because with you, it would've meant something. Too much. And so he kept quiet. Even after the war. Even after you'd both survived everything but the truth.

But when a compulsion curse forces Fred to speak every truth he's ever buried - including the ones he's hidden from himself - you're called in to help. What starts as magical diagnosis becomes an unraveling of everything between you: school memories, missed chances, and the love you both spent years refusing to name.

Now the spell is breaking. But what if you're not ready for what comes next?

What if the truth is still too big to say?

6.1k words

A/N: This fic is for the Fred girlies who like emotional damage, slow-burn mutual pining, and the catharsis of finally saying the things that have gone unsaid for years. If you love accidental confessions, ancient magic, post-war grief, and the slowest of slow burns - this one's for you.

Fred Weasley never told you how he felt.

Not when you bandaged his hand after a failed fireworks charm in fourth year.

Not when Snape paired you together in Potions and you spilled Amortentia all over his notes - and he didn’t care, because your laugh sounded exactly like the fizzing of a sweet joke just before it exploded.

Not even after the war, when you’d grown into your own kind of brilliant, training under the best curse-breakers while he rebuilt the shop and himself at the same time.

You were always in his orbit. Close enough to touch. But never quite his.

He flirted with everyone. Everyone except you.

Because it would have meant something. Too much.

So he didn’t say it.

Not until the day the curse made it impossible not to.

The last thing Fred remembered before the spell hit was the sound of George saying, “You absolute idiot, don’t eat that -”

Then:

Snap.

Spark.

Dark.

Then:

Truth.

The owl arrived with an irritated rattle of wings and an urgent red seal.

You barely glanced up at first - still hunched over a centuries old scroll, ink smudge on your fingers, neck aching from the angle you’d been craning for hours. You were in the middle of translating an ancient ward-breaking glyph from a Celtic tomb, halfway between brilliance and burnout.

But then your eyes caught the Ministry mark.

You unrolled the parchment with growing unease.

“Urgent magical accident. Diagon Alley. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Spontaneous compulsion spell - patient unable to lie. Curse-breaker assistance required immediately.”

When you saw the name, you cursed under your breath - not because it was Fred Weasley.

But because it was Fred Weasley.

You muttered something unprintable under your breath, grabbed your satchel, and Disapparated without even changing out of your work clothes.

Wind whipped at your scarf the moment you reappeared on the cobbled edge of Diagon Alley. The early evening air was brisk, tinged with wood smoke and the sugary scent of something exploding several doors down.

You climbed the stairs to the flat above with dread curling low in your stomach. You hadn’t seen Fred in months - not since that mutual friend’s wedding, where he’d danced like a man trying to forget something.

You hadn’t forgotten anything.

The door creaked open before you knocked.

“Of course it’s you,” Fred groaned, flopped across the old settee with one hand over his eyes. “Of all the curse-breakers in Britain…”

You dropped your bag by the fireplace and gave him a once-over: flushed cheeks, twitchy fingers, and a slightly panicked glint in his eyes.

“You look like hell,” you said flatly.

Fred blinked. “You smell amazing.”

A pause.

Your brow raised.

“I - I mean -” He turned desperately to George, who was seated on the armrest with a half-eaten Cauldron Cake. “See? I’m broken.”

George choked on his cake, coughing through a laugh. “Oh, he’s so broken.”

Fred didn’t stop talking for the next ten minutes.

It wasn’t that he meant to - in fact, you could see the moment he realized he couldn’t help it, eyes wide with horror as each confession tumbled out of his mouth like a poorly warded truth serum.

“I used to doodle your name and mine in the margins of my Charms notes but made them invisible.”

“I definitely faked a nosebleed once to get you to fix it. You touched my face. It was a whole thing.”

“I flirted with Angelina to distract from the fact that I was in love with someone else. Obviously, it didn’t work.”

You stared at him.

“I -” he began, horrified, “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait. No. I did. I just didn’t mean to say it now.”

You slowly closed your diagnostic journal and looked at him - not the patient, not the prankster, but the boy you used to pass notes to in the library. The boy you tried so hard to ignore, even when he sat two rows over, turning your insides to jelly every time he laughed.

“Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “this is going to be interesting.”

The day faded into a dusky blue-gray outside, street lamps flickering to life below the window. You’d stayed longer than you meant to - partly for professional reasons, partly because Fred had finally stopped talking and fallen asleep, and partly because…

Well.

Because being in that flat again felt like stepping backward into something half-familiar and half-forbidden.

You moved quietly through the room, setting up the last of the diagnostic wards around his bed for overnight monitoring. A soft glow followed your wand tip, encasing the mattress in a protective shimmer.

That’s when you saw it - a photo, old and curling at the edges, tucked just under his lamp.

You reached for it without thinking.

It was one of those enchanted prints from Hogwarts: you and Alicia laughing on the lawn, books open but forgotten. Behind you, Fred photobombed with both thumbs up, mid-wink, grinning like he knew a secret.

He’d cut the photo unevenly to frame just you.

He caught you looking.

“I’ve had that since sixth year,” he said softly. “I never showed anyone. George would’ve never let me live it down.”

Your fingers lingered on the edge of the photo. Something in your chest tightened - an old, bruised feeling you’d never let surface until now.

You remembered that day.

You remembered the way Fred kept circling, teasing Alicia, always just barely brushing by you.

You thought it was a coincidence.

But now… now you weren’t so sure.

Truth, unfortunately, doesn’t sleep.

You’d only been back at the Weasley flat for one day and already regretted not charging triple.

The spell was something you hadn’t seen in years - an ancient truth-compulsion enchantment originally designed by paranoid Ministry officials during the early wizarding trials. It latched onto emotion. Instinct. Buried thoughts.

It wasn’t just a compulsion to speak.

It was a pressure point in the soul - twisting at instinct and memory, unraveling the threads people usually kept hidden. The deeper someone buried a thought, the faster it rose to the surface. Emotion made it worse. Shame made it impossible. The spell clung to those things like a bloodhound with a grudge.

In short: Fred was a live wire with absolutely no filter.

And he hated it.

Morning light spilled through the window of the flat like a spotlight on bad decisions.

You were in the sitting room again, running another scan - wand calibrated to a specialized focus stone, fingers ready, voice neutral. Fred sat on the edge of the couch, slouched forward slightly with the grim posture of a man preparing to embarrass himself in real time.

He was trying not to look at you.

Bad idea.

“Honestly?” Fred muttered as you hovered a spell-focus over his chest to measure magical resistance, “I can feel your hand through my shirt and it’s killing me. Thought you should know. For science.”

You didn’t blink. “Noted.”

“You’re very professional. That’s frustrating.”

“You can stop talking any time.”

“I really can’t,” he said miserably. “Also, your hair looks really soft today.”

You dropped the focus on his stomach.

He wheezed.

You stepped back calmly, scribbled a note, and pretended not to notice the color blooming at the tops of his ears.

By mid-afternoon, the flat had grown stifling - too small, too loud, too filled with unsaid things that Fred might accidentally say. You relocated to the front of the shop under the guise of needing open space for magical threshold testing, but really, you just needed to breathe.

George had roped Lee Jordan into helping restock a shipment of Fainting Fancies, while you and Fred camped near the warded entrance with a stack of charm protocols and a battered diagnostic wand that sparked if you angled it wrong.

It was mostly boring.

Until you added a layered pressure charm - subtle, but enough to press against the edges of his aura, and casually asked, “How do you feel under magical strain?”

“Terrible,” he said automatically.

You nodded, taking notes.

He paused.

“Also I think about kissing you at least once a day, and it’s so inconvenient.”

You froze.

Fred’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

You didn’t move..

“It’s not new,” he rushed on. “Since sixth year. That stupid Amortentia lesson Snape had us paired up in? Yours smelled like ink and cloves. Mine smelled like you.”

You looked up sharply.

Fred winced. “See? This is awful. You’re going to run back to the Ministry and leave me to rot.”

You let the silence stretch for just long enough to make him sweat.

Then, finally: “I’m not leaving,” you said, quiet but certain. “But you do need to shut up before you give yourself a heart attack.”

“Too late. Already dying. Will definitely haunt you.”

You shook your head, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked. “But charming.”

“Unfortunately.”

That night, the flat settled into a soft quiet - the kind that only comes after a day spent pretending not to feel what you’re feeling.

You stayed in the spare room, door slightly ajar. Moonlight filtered in through the window, painting silver lines across your notebook as you sat cross-legged on the bed, journal open, mind racing.

Fred had always been flirtatious - you knew that. He’d turned it into an art form. But this… this wasn’t practiced lines or clever banter. It was too raw. Too uncertain. Too honest.

He wasn’t performing anymore.

He was unraveling.

You traced the edge of the page in your journal, half-distracted.

You’d written his name dozens of times today.

Across the hall, Fred lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might answer all the questions he was too afraid to ask out loud.

Somewhere between blurting out his feelings and realizing you hadn’t run screaming for the hills, something had shifted.

You weren’t just a memory of laughter in a Gryffindor common room anymore. You weren’t just a ghost from a chapter in his past.

You were here. Now.

And the truth was out in the open.

Fred wasn’t sure if that terrified him or freed him - maybe both - but one thing was certain:

He’d waited years to tell you any of this. And now that the dam had cracked, the only thing he wanted was to keep going.

Even if it killed him.

The day had been nonstop mayhem.

One of the Pygmy Puffs escaped. George accidentally sold a pair of reversible boxers that swapped genders and houses. And Fred? He knocked over an entire display of Banshee Buttons with his elbow, triggering a five-minute wail so loud it shattered two Sneakoscopes and scared a tourist into buying one.

You barely had time to recast the floor-warding spells before locking up.

Now, hours later, the three of you collapsed in the flat upstairs. The lights were low, the fire warm, and half-finished bottles of Firewhisky and butterbeer were scattered across the floor like trophies. You were curled up on the loveseat. Fred sat on the rug nearby, back against the sofa, legs stretched out. George was perched on the windowsill, swirling a cocktail that glowed faintly green.

“This batch might actually kill people,” he said cheerfully. “Which means it’ll sell brilliantly.”

You raised your butterbeer. “To war crimes in candy form.”

Fred clinked his bottle against yours. “Cheers.”

You were all exhausted, a little buzzed, and laughing in that slow, golden way that only happened late at night, when the chaos finally settled and the quiet came.

Which is exactly when George decided to ruin it.

“So,” he said casually, not looking up, “how long did your little school crush on Freddie here last?”

You blinked. Fred turned his head toward you, eyebrows lifting.

You scoffed. “What?”

“Oh come on,” George said. “Everyone knew. Back at school - all those stolen glances over cauldron smoke. The time you tripped over your own robes when he winked at you in Transfiguration?”

“I tripped because Ron threw a Quill-Chewing Chizpurfle at my head,” you muttered.

George smirked. “Right. Sure you did.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal. Everyone had a crush on Fred back then.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Did they?”

You waved it off, too quickly. “It was school. We were sixteen. It didn’t mean anything.”

The silence that followed landed like a hex.

You didn’t notice it at first - not until Fred sat up straighter. His drink hung forgotten in his hand.

When he spoke, his voice was too quiet to be casual.

“I certainly didn’t have a crush on you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you - really looked - and in the firelight, his eyes weren’t playful. They were glassy. Raw.

“It wasn’t a crush,” he said again. “A crush was what I had on Angelina in fourth year. It lasted three weeks and ended when she jinxed my eyebrows off. I had a crush on that Slytherin in fourth year who looked like she’d stab someone with a sugar quill.”

He gave a single, humorless laugh.

“You?” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “You were different.”

George, to his credit, said nothing.

Fred turned back to you. His voice steadied - low, but certain.

“I noticed you before you ever noticed me. You were the one person I couldn’t joke with the same way - not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t trust myself. Because you mattered.”

Your breath caught.

“I used to memorize where you sat in class,” he said with a crooked smile. “So I’d know where not to sit. Being near you made me forget punchlines.”

Your heart was thudding now, traitorously loud.

“And during the Battle…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t see you at first. And then I did. You were hexing a Death Eater - twice your size, might I add - with your arm bleeding down to your fingertips, and you still yelled at me to keep moving.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I thought I was going to lose you. And that night, when you limped past me holding your wand like it was the only thing keeping you upright - I wanted to say something. Anything. I even wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” Fred said softly. “And now this bloody curse is dragging it out of me like some sort of humiliating game and - Merlin, I wish I’d just told you before. When it was mine to give.”

You stared at him, the past rewriting itself behind your eyes.

George stood quietly. “Right. I’m suddenly feeling very much… like I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, disappearing down the hall with his drink and saintlike timing.

You were still staring.

“I thought you were just… Fred,” you said finally. “Friendly. Charming. Untouchable.” 

He looked at you then - broken open, not smiling.

“You were always the untouchable one.”

The flat was still.

Outside, Diagon Alley lay hushed beneath a soft coat of snow, the lamplight glinting off frost-laced eaves. Inside, the fire had dwindled to embers, casting sleepy gold shadows across the floorboards. Fred was curled on the couch beneath a frayed Gryffindor blanket, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling tea.

You sat beside him - not touching, but close enough to feel the space between you hum with everything unsaid.

Neither of you had spoken much since George had retreated to bed with an overly dramatic yawn and an oddly well-timed exit. That conversation - that confession - still hung in the air like dust, impossible to ignore.

You could feel Fred watching you from the corner of your eye.

But you didn’t look.

Not yet.

You were flipping through your spell journal, feigning focus, when Fred flinched.

Your head snapped up. “What was that?”

He winced, one hand going to his side. “Just a flare. Feels like something’s… pushing out.”

You shifted toward him instinctively. “You didn’t say anything earlier.”

“I didn’t want to -” He stopped, then gave a crooked smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt the awkward silence.”

You rolled your eyes, already tugging the blanket aside. Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“Lift up,” you murmured.

He obeyed.

Beneath his ribs, magic shimmered faintly beneath the skin - a bruised glow ripping with each breath.

You pressed your wand gently to its edge. “This’ll tingle.”

Fred didn’t flinch.

“I trust you,” he said.

You froze.

Just for a second.

Those words landed deeper than they had any right to.

Whether Fred noticed or not, he didn’t let on. He just watched you - quiet, steady, while you worked.

When the charm finished settling and the light faded, you lowered your wand and leaned back with a quiet breath.

“Thanks,” he said, still watching you like he wasn’t quite ready to stop.

“You should’ve told me it was getting worse.”

He shrugged. “I figured if I ignored it, it might go away.”

You gave him a look. “Has that ever worked?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “No. But that didn’t stop me from trying. With everything else, too.”

The fire crackled. SIlence stretched - not uncomfortable, but fragile.

Fred set down his mug, slowly, like it had become too heavy to hold.

“I thought if I told you,” he said, his voice quiet and raw, “I’d lose you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Back in school. After the battle. Even when you walked in yesterday. I thought if I said something real, it’d break whatever version of you I still had.”

You stared into the fire. Your chest ached.

“But now…” Fred exhaled, low and shaky. “Now I think I’m losing myself instead.”

You turned toward him.

Really turned.

Fred Weasley - the one who always had a joke, a smirk, an escape route - looked worn thin. Like the weight of years, of unspoken truths, had finally caught up.

“I didn’t want it to be a curse that made me say it,” he murmured. “But it did. And now you know. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You hadn’t realized you were leaning in until you noticed the shift in his gaze - down, briefly, to your mouth.

His breath caught.

So did yours.

And for one suspended heartbeat, you both leaned closer.

Heat. Tension. Gravity.

But then -

Fred paused.

Just enough to pull back.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his eyes dropping.

You eased back too, your heart aching and alive.

“No,” you said softly. “Don’t be.”

Because you weren’t ready. Not yet. Not tonight.

But your hands still tingled from touching him.

And your chest was still tight from almost hearing everything you’d once told yourself not to hope for.

The room went quiet again.

But this time, the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was full of maybe.

And maybe it was almost loud enough to believe in.

The library at Grimmauld Place smelled like parchment and ghosts.

Dust curled in the corners. Enchanted books drifted lazily above their shelves, still dutiful after decades of neglect. Overhead, the chandelier flickered with an eerie blue light, casting shadows that shifted with the turn of every page.

You and Fred sat opposite each other at the long oak table, a fortress of books stacked between you - most cracked open to smudged entries on psychological hexes, emotional compulsion spells, and ancient, half-forgotten curses. The kind of magic people whispered about, but rarely wrote down.

Fred’s hair was a mess, and his jumper had a new hole scorched into the sleeve from a misfired detection charm. He looked exhausted.

You weren’t faring much better.

But there was something about this - about being here, late, together - that made the silence feel full rather than empty.

You ran a hand through your hair and murmured, “Found something.”

Fred glanced up.

You slid a battered tome across the table. The page was marked with a shaky scrawl and a rust-colored fingerprint. The entry read:

Spell Type: Veritas Malefica

Often mistaken for a standard truth compulsion. Rooted in grief-based magic.

Enchantment reacts violently to emotional suppression - not lies told to others, but lies told to oneself.

Fred blinked slowly. “What does that mean?”

You swallowed. “It means… the more you try to bury what you’re feeling - especially from yourself - the worse it gets.”

He leaned back, the realization settling like stones in his chest.

“So I’ve been making it worse,” he said, voice hollow. “Every time I pretended it didn’t matter. Every time I told myself it wasn’t -”

He didn’t finish.

You looked down at your hands. “You’re not cursed because you lied to other people, Fred. You’re cursed because you’ve been lying to yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp - it was heavy. Knowing.

Then Fred laughed - just once. Bitter and tired.

“Of course it’s emotional repression. I couldn’t have just accidentally swallowed a cursed sweet like a normal idiot.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

But then: “There’s something else.”

He looked over.

You hesitated, then pushed forward. “I think I’m the trigger.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Every time the curse flares - it’s when I’m nearby. When I ask you something real. When we’re close.”

Fred stared at you.

Still, you didn’t stop.

“I’m not saying I’m bad for you. I’m saying… I’m the one person you’ve spent years pretending you didn’t feel anything for.”

His eyes dropped away. “Because if I didn’t pretend,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

You nodded. “I know.”

Silence settled again - quieter now. Expectant.

And then you said it.

“I liked you too, you know.”

Fred’s head lifted. His gaze found yours - sharp. Breathless.

You weren’t smiling. You were just honest.

“I used to sit two rows behind you in Charms and laugh at your jokes - even the terrible ones. I’d take the long way to class if it meant running into you. I noticed when you stopped joking with me after sixth year. I noticed everything. But you never said anything, so I thought…”

“That it wasn’t real,” Fred finished, barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

A beat passed.

And then - Fred said the thing that mattered most:

“I think that’s when it started. The lie. The one I kept telling myself - that I didn’t feel anything. That you were just… someone I missed a chance with.”

Your breath caught.

Fred leaned in, just slightly, voice raw.

“And the more I lied, the worse it got. The more I smiled and flirted and joked like it didn’t mean anything… the louder it got inside my head. Until the curse made it impossible to ignore.”

You didn’t speak.

And, for once, neither did Fred.

He just looked at you - unguarded. Quiet. Like he was finally allowing himself to be seen.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was warmer now.

Not because anything had been fixed.

But because nothing was hiding anymore.

The day after Grimmauld Place, something shifted.

Not in a catastrophic way. No slammed doors. No shouting. No curses gone awry.

Just… distance.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t avoiding him - not outright. But Fred felt it. In the extra beat between your replies. In the way your laughter skimmed the surface but never quite sank. In how your hands were always busy - labeling jars, reorganizing shelves, rereading the same page for the third time.

And Fred - who had spent most of his adult life performing noise in place of honesty - didn’t know how to survive the quiet.

So he filled it.

Poorly.

By midday, he was back to tossing out jokes. Half-hearted ones. Ones with all the punch of a wet sparkler.

“Careful with that,” he said, nodding at a crate of Sneezing Sparkles. “Wouldn’t want you bursting into glitter again. Not without warning me first. I need time to emotionally prepare.”

You didn’t look up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fred winced. He couldn’t tell if you were irritated, distracted, or just… elsewhere.

He hated it.

He hated not knowing.

By the time you’d locked up for the night, the air between you was taut - stretched thin by all the things unsaid.

Fred lingered behind the counter, pacing. You were counting inventory. Precisely. Methodically. Like precision could protect you.

“You’re not… avoiding me, are you?”

You glanced up. “No.”

He nodded too fast. “Right. Cool.”

You went back to counting. “I just needed space.”

“From me?”

You hesitated. “From everything.”

Fred leaned against the doorframe, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Is this about what I said?”

You didn’t answer.

Which, of course, made it worse.

Fred smiled - the brittle kind, the kind that hurt to wear. “Because I can take it back, you know. If that’s what you need. The curse is still having a laugh - I’ll probably say something worse tomorrow. Might as well get ahead of it.”

You closed the ledger. “Fred -”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, too fast, too loud. “We’ll pretend none of it happened. I’ll go back to flirting and making things weird in a fun way. We’ll rewind. Reset. Or maybe -” He laughed, sharp and thin. “Maybe I’ll just stop talking altogether. That seems safer.”

You stared at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice rising. “But neither is falling in love with someone who’s not ready to hear it.”

The words echoed - harsh and hollow.

Fred froze, eyes wide, as if he’d just heard himself speak.

You swallowed. “Fred…”

“I didn’t mean to -” He stopped. Exhaled. Then, quietly, “No. I did. I meant to say it. I’m not sorry.”

You didn’t move.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said again, softer. “And I hate that I didn’t say it years ago. Before the shop. Before the war. Before I was a complete and total jackass to you in school. Before I let a damn curse speak for me.”

The room went still.

And you?

You didn’t say it back.

Not because it wasn’t true. Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you weren’t ready.

The words were there - somewhere beneath your ribs, curled like a secret. But they hadn’t found their shape yet. They hadn’t learned how to stand.

And Fred - as much as it ached - deserved more than almost.

So you looked at him - open, aching, real - and said:

“...I can’t say it right now. Not like this.”

Fred didn’t speak. Just nodded. Once. Slow and sharp, like something cracking.

Then he turned away.

That night, the flat was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t full of maybe.

It was full of waiting.

The ancient ritual site felt like it was holding its breath.

A ring of weathered stones stood half-sunken in the frostbitten earth, their surfaces carved with runes long faded by time but not by meaning. The clearing was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the bare trees - a hush that felt less like absence and more like reverence.

You stood with Fred in the center of the circle, boots crunching softly against brittle grass rimmed with ice. The winter air curled at your sleeves and stung your nose, but the real chill came from the magic itself - thick and waiting, like fog with a heartbeat.

Above, the sky stretched iron-gray, heavy with unshed snow. The clouds did not move. The world did not move. It was as if everything - time, wind, fate - had stilled to bear witness.

You turned to him, wand at your side. He hadn’t spoken since you both Apparated. Just stood beside you, solid and tense, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t name.

“This is the last chance to back out,” you said softly.

Fred shook his head, jaw tight. “I don’t want to be forced anymore. Not even into the truth.”

You searched his face, looking for doubt. All you found was exhaustion - and resolve.

“Even if that means you don’t say it again?” you asked, voice low. “Even if that disappears with the spell?”

A beat passed.

Then: “I’ll say it again,” Fred said, almost in a whisper. “I’ll say it as many times as you can bear. As long as you let me.”

It nearly undid you - the quiet certainty in him. The gentleness. How hard he was trying not to sway you.

You raised your wand.

Your hand trembled as you drew the final rune, its golden light blooming to life beneath your feet. A delicate warmth pulsed outward - soft, not showy. No sparks. No lightning. Just a subtle kind of release, like a breath held for too long finally leaving the body.

Fred gasped - once, sharply - and staggered a step back. Then stilled.

The pressure - that slow, suffocating undertow he’d learned to live with - had vanished.

No more tug beneath his magic.

No more invisible leash between his chest and his tongue.

It was gone.

And what remained was just him.

Unfiltered. Unbound.

Uncertain.

He looked up at you, and something in his face had shifted. Not dramatically - but undeniably. His eyes, usually full of mischief or guarded deflection, were open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Luminous.

Like someone standing in the wreckage of something invisible but heavy - and trying to figure out what to do with the air that came rushing in.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because the spell was broken.

But the moment wasn’t.

You didn’t want to rush it. Didn’t want to shutter the fragile, aching stillness. So you stood there, breathing the same winter air, magic still humming faintly beneath your boots, waiting to see what - if anything - would come next.

Nothing did.

Fred offered a faint, searching smile - one that didn’t ask for anything, only promised.

Then he turned, and you followed him home.

Back at the flat, the silence continued - softer now, but not without weight. You sat on the edge of your bed, coat still buttoned, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

Fred had gone to his room without a word. Not out of coldness. Just… to give you space. To let the choice be yours now.

And that was what gutted you most.

Because for so long, he had been the one stuck between wanting and not being able to say it. He had been cursed, compelled, uncertain.

Now, he was free.

And you were the one who didn’t know what to say.

You paced the length of your room, again and again, like maybe motion could organize the ache in your chest. Like maybe you’d trip over the answer in your own footsteps.

The curse was gone. You’d done what you came to do. You’d given him back his voice.

So why did it feel like you were the one unraveling?

Because he hadn’t said it again.

Hadn’t kissed you.

Hadn’t needed to.

And still - still - you felt the gravity of him in every breath. Still, your bones ached with the pressure of something half-formed.

The truth?

You wanted to run to his door and say it first.

But you didn’t know how.

The words lived inside you now - no longer curled and waiting like they had been. They were restless. Rising. Trying to find shape in a mouth that wasn’t ready to give them sound.

You pressed a hand to your chest. It felt like mourning something you hadn’t even lost. Like standing at the edge of a choice so big, you couldn’t see where it ended.

Because the spell was broken.

But your heart was still spellbound.

And for the first time in all of this…

The choice - terrifying, impossible, real - was yours.

The snow had stopped sometime after sundown, leaving Diagon Alley blanketed in a hush that felt almost reverent. The night sky stretched out in every direction — wide, open, impossibly clear — the stars above pricking like tiny wounds in navy velvet. Below, the last shops were shuttering, the alley buzzing faintly with the warmth of distant laughter and clinking glass.

But up here, it was quiet. Up here, it was just you and him.

Fred stood near the edge of the rooftop, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat, his breath curling into soft clouds that disappeared into the night. He looked different now — not visibly, not in any way you could point to — but something in his posture had changed. It was like he’d dropped something heavy that had been pulling him sideways for months, and now he was learning how to stand up straight again.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to say.

You let the silence stretch.

It was the first time in ages he wasn’t being pulled by magic — wasn’t under its thumb, its push, its pressure. For the first time, everything he felt was real. Every look. Every word. Every breath between us.

And that meant he had to choose now. Really choose.

You stepped closer.

He turned at the sound, his gaze finding yours fast — startled, raw, searching. Like he wasn’t sure what he’d see when he looked at you. Like part of him was still afraid you wouldn’t come.

But you had.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

“Hey.”

You moved to stand beside him, your coat brushing his, your fingers twitching at your sides with nerves you hadn’t expected. The wind had teeth, but you barely felt it.

The weight between you wasn’t a curse anymore. It was something else now. Something human.

“Cold up here,” he said, his voice too casual, too quiet.

You smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d mind. You used to say the cold made you feel alive.”

He huffed a laugh, something wistful and a little hollow. “Yeah. That was before I knew what feeling alive actually felt like.”

You turned to look at him — really look. “How does it feel now?”

Fred hesitated. Then, slowly, he met your eyes.

“Loud,” he said. “Like everything’s louder. Brighter. Sharper.”

“And scary?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. That too.”

You could see it — the flicker of uncertainty. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or masks. There was no spell smoothing the way, no magic buffering the vulnerability. It was just Fred. Scared. Honest. Free.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said. “I just wanted to be here. To see you. You.”

Fred blinked, jaw tightening. “But I want to say it.”

Your heart skipped.

“I’ve wanted to say it for a while,” he continued. “Even when I wasn’t sure if it was me or the curse talking. And when we broke it, I thought… if it was real, it would still be there. And it is. It is.”

He took a shaky breath. “I love you.”

The words fell out in the quiet like they belonged there. Like they’d been waiting for the right moment to land.

You didn’t answer right away.

You stepped forward, slow and steady, until there was barely space between you. Then you slipped your hands into his coat, fingers wrapping around his — solid, grounding.

“I know,” you said gently. “And I believe you now.”

Fred’s eyes filled. He laughed — a watery, disbelieving thing — and then leaned his forehead against yours.

“No magic,” he whispered.

“No magic,” you echoed.

Just breath and cold and stars. Just you and him and the night around you holding its breath.

And then, you kissed him.

Soft, certain. Real.

It wasn’t a rush or a rescue. It wasn’t a promise or an apology. It was a beginning — honest and slow, stitched together with everything you’d fought for.

Fred kissed you back like he finally had permission to feel — really feel. His hands rose to your waist, your cheek, your jaw, not desperate but careful. Like he didn’t want to forget a single detail.

When you finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You could feel him smile, wide and shaky and undone.

“Still cursed,” he said, voice barely there.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled wider. “Hopelessly. By you.”

You laughed against his lips. “You idiot.”

“You love me anyway,” he said.

You kissed him again.

Not because a spell told you to.

But because you’d fought for this.

And it was yours now.

All of it.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Emotional Repression

Emotional repression is all about avoiding emotional suffering.

It is a coping style used to hide and push away negative emotions.

Can be thought of as a defense mechanism, where people defend themselves from the negatives and focus instead on the positive aspects of who they are (Garssen, 2007).

It differs from emotional suppression, which is a one-off act of avoiding negative emotions, rather than a habitual coping strategy (Garssen, 2007).

Signs of Emotional Repression

There can be a range of signs that may indicate that you repress your emotions. These signs can be grouped into particular behaviors, ways of thinking, and ways of relating to yourself and others.

Patterns of Thinking

You believe negative emotions are something bad, weak, or embarrassing.

You believe negative emotions should not be expressed.

You believe that you never struggle with negative emotions and describe yourself as feeling ‘fine.’

Patterns of Behaving and Relating to Yourself

You ignore and push away negative thoughts and emotions.

You avoid and distract from your negative thoughts and emotions by turning toward numbing and escaping behaviors such as drinking and using substances, binge eating, watching tv, playing computer games, or overworking.

You find it difficult to recognize and admit that things in your life are harming you.

You find yourself at times erupting because of built-up emotions.

You focus more on your physical wellbeing.

Patterns of Behaving and Relating to Others

You generally do not like to be asked how you feel.

You put on a positive front in front of others; do not express negative emotions.

You get along well with people but struggle with emotional intimacy and close friendships.

You feel uncomfortable with and struggle to tolerate people who are emotional and express negativity, and you try to shift focus to the positive.

Just because a person represses negative emotions does not mean their emotions disappear.

People who repress their emotions tend to focus on their physical health and seek physical health solutions for emotional health problems (Abbass, 2005).

Just like a physical wound may fester and become infected if left untreated, the accumulation of unaddressed emotions can lead to stress, anxiety, and depression. The increase in cortisol that comes with stress (Patel & Patel, 2019) can lead to changes in heart rate, motivation, and sleep (Cote, 2005).

As people who repress their emotions may struggle to cope, they may use unhealthy short-term coping strategies such as:

Overeating

Substance abuse

Medication noncompliance (Abbass, 2005)

There are links between emotional repression and the development of physical health problems such as:

Colds (Pennebaker, 1997)

Chronic pain (Beutler, Engle, Oro-Beutler, Daldrup, & Meredith, 1986)

Heart disease (Myers, 2010)

A lowered immune system that can increase the risks of developing other health conditions such as cancer (Weihs, Enright, Simmens, & Reiss, 2000)

Emotional repression may also restrict people’s ability to connect intimately with others in their life because of insensitivity to negative emotions and difficulty tolerating negative emotions and being around others when they are emotionally suffering.

Simultaneously, it may be difficult for individuals to be authentic.

They may resist opening up and being vulnerable to others, causing their relationships to be distant and avoidant.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[defire]

Fun things about trauma bonds I learned in the cult

(Specifically talking about the bond between victims of the same abuse)

Content: real-life scenarios, ptsd, trauma bond, forced labor, doublethink, emotional repression

Feels like they are the only ones that could ever understand you

Having similar conditioned responses

Having similar extreme responses--things that should be just funny become choking-hazard hilarious, things that should get a chuckle get a synchronous shrug

On that note, often saying the exact same thing in the exact same tone

Specific things like whumper's tone of voice when they say a certain thing, would be a joke when they weren't there

Singing to cope with many hours of forced hard labor, immediately going silent when whumper entered

Talking about the trauma was OFF LIMITS, only code-speak that whumper couldn't understand could be used to warn each other

Only certain feelings were allowed to be shown because we had been conditioned that some feelings were "not safe"

Openly admitting to each other that it wasn't safe inside the house with whumper and then telling outsiders that we were totally safe and thinking we were telling the truth both times

All saying exactly the same lines to strangers (example "we are all wretches" *shrug*)

Married-couple-level nonverbal communication.

"do you want this extra food? I'll sneak it to you under the table." "Give it to [other victim]." "Watch out, whumper's looking." All happened nonverbally with eye and head movements right in front of whumper.

Working together seamlessly (or else!)

As soon as you leave the cult, the pressure that forced the bond in the first place, the trauma-bond relationship can fall apart

No good relationship ever feels as intense or close as the trauma bond, and you wonder what you're doing wrong. Till you realize you aren't panicking constantly--that's the main difference

[whumpster-dumpster]

whumpee that uses their stress/anger to force themselves to keep going throughout severely traumatic events suddenly getting forced to stop and rest, causing all of the trauma they went through to suddenly catch up to them all at once

Anger is often a shield for all the vulnerable emotions to hide underneath; once that's forced down and they're left alone with everything that happened, it all comes crashing in. Poor Whumpee

[queerteapie]

Spellbound Hearts (18+)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal

Warnings: This fic contains elements of ritual-based intimacy, political pressure, and emotionally charged power dynamics. All acts are consensual but may involve complex feelings or reluctant circumstances. Please read with care.

Rating: Mature

Challenge: Agatha All Along Week, Day 2: Fake Dating/Marriage (@agathaallalongweek)

Summary: To save her place on the High Circle, Agatha Harkness binds herself to her longtime rival in a powerful magical ritual. It’s only meant to be a performance - a fake marriage with arcane flair and no strings attached. But the bond is real. The desire is real. And the magic never lies.

Tags: 18+, light smut, NSFW, fake marriage, ritual-based intimacy, political pressure, power dynamic, light manipulation, power imbalance, emotional repression

AAA Week Day 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | Ao3

Spellbound Hearts

The room smells of blood and lavender.

Agatha stands before the High Circle with her chin lifted, hands clasped behind her back like a schoolgirl caught hexing the headmistress - and not a sorceress whose very presence makes the air hum with barely-restrained power.

"You performed an unsanctioned possession," intones Elder Morrigan, voice like bone grinding on stone. "You tampered with soul-threaded magic. The punishment-"

"-is shared between magically bonded witches," Agatha interrupts, smiling with dangerous ease. "As the law states. And I am bonded."

Murmurs ripple through the circle.

"To whom?" asks Morrigan sharply.

Agatha lifts her hand. The opal ring on her finger glows faintly violet. “To my wife.”

She turns. Slowly. Like a performer at the height of their trick. And there she is - standing at the edge of the chamber, arms crossed, one eyebrow already raised in pure disbelief.

Rio Vidal.

Dark suit. Darker eyes. Looking like she’d rather be anywhere else in the known universe.

“I’m not-” Rio starts.

“She is,” Agatha cuts in, smiling sweetly. “Magically. Legally. Spiritually. Everything but emotionally, of course. We’re still working on that.”

The murmurs turn into whispers. The Circle feeds on drama like its sacrament.

“You lied,” Rio hisses under her breath as she steps forward.

“I improvised,” Agatha replies.

Elder Morrigan narrows her eyes. “Then the bond must be proven. You know the rite.”

Agatha turns back to Rio, her smile now tinged with challenge. “Of course we know it.”

Rio looks at her, long and slow. “You absolute lunatic.”

“Darling, that’s Mrs. Lunatic to you.”

The ritual chamber is a hollow of stone and candlelight. Ancient sigils glow faintly on the floor, pulsing in time with the heartbeat Agatha refuses to admit she feels in her throat.

The air is thick with magic and unspoken questions. The Circle watches from the shadows, their forms obscured behind a veil of silence and spellcraft. No sound will escape the ritual ring. No lie will survive it.

Rio steps inside the circle with all the grace of someone walking to the gallows. Agatha watches her, tilting her head like she’s deciding which nerve to pluck first.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Rio mutters, stopping across from her.

“You could always back out,” Agatha purrs.

“And let you face the Council alone? Tempting.” Her voice is flat, but her eyes burn. “But no. You dragged me into this - now we finish it.”

The officiant - an ancient witch draped in robes that shimmer like oil on water - steps into the center and raises a hand. “As is tradition,” she intones, “the bond must be sealed with shared essence and exposed intent. Body to body. Power to power.”

Agatha reaches for Rio’s hand. Their fingers meet, and the sigils on the ground ignite in gold.

They both flinch.

The officiant nods. “You will speak no lies within this circle. The spell will taste deception. You will perform the rite of unity. If either of you withholds truth or touch, the bond will fail. The punishment will fall.”

Agatha leans in, voice like velvet. “Touch me, wife.”

Rio’s jaw tightens. Her fingers curl a little tighter around Agatha’s. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh,” Agatha breathes, drawing closer. “That’s the best part.”

The ritual begins.

They kneel, hand in hand, before the flame at the circle’s center. Agatha murmurs the incantation, and golden thread winds around their wrists, pulling them closer.

They must kiss first - tradition demands a show of unity.

Agatha leans in.

Rio doesn’t pull away.

Their lips meet - not gently, not sweetly, but like a question neither of them wants to ask out loud. Magic blooms between their mouths, hot and wild and urgent. It burns down Agatha’s spine. She feels Rio’s fingers twitch against hers and knows she felt it too.

The officiant’s voice murmurs approval. “Let the bond deepen.”

Agatha shifts, easing Rio down onto the cool stone floor. Her touch is slow, reverent, theatrical - for the audience, yes, but also for her. She wants this memory carved into Rio’s skin.

She settles over her with careful precision, as if laying a spell, her fingertips ghosting along Rio’s jaw before sliding down the column of her throat. She lets her thumb linger in the hollow just above her collarbone, feeling the pulse there - fast, frantic, so alive.

Rio doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. But her breath catches when Agatha leans in and presses her lips just beneath her ear. A kiss. Then another. Each one trailing downward like falling embers.

Agatha’s voice brushes against her skin. “Still pretending this is just for the Council?”

Rio doesn’t answer.

So Agatha lets her lips do the questioning. She presses a kiss to Rio’s throat, then her chest, then lower still. Her hands map familiar territory like it’s forbidden, like she’s memorizing it for a storm to come. The silk of Rio’s shirt slides away with a whispered charm. Agatha breathes her in - heat, sweat, magic, and something softer underneath it all.

Rio’s fingers clutch the fabric beneath her, but she doesn’t push Agatha away. When Agatha’s mouth finds her stomach, Rio arches just slightly, a stifled sigh escaping her lips.

The golden thread pulses brighter.

Agatha watches it flicker against Rio’s skin, illuminating the points where their bodies touch. Her hand slides up, curling around Rio’s waist, holding her there, grounding them both as if the spell might lift them off the earth.

She leans up again, brushing her nose against Rio’s cheek. Their foreheads meet. “You feel that too, don’t you?”

Still no answer. But Rio tilts her head and their mouths finally meet again - not frantic, not lustful, but aching. Lingering. As if they might fall apart without it. Hands explore, brushing over fabric, beneath it, finding heat. Each touch makes the golden thread glow brighter.

And then - magic flares like lightning.

A wave of energy cracks through the circle. Rio gasps, arching beneath her, and Agatha’s breath catches.

It’s working. The spell is feeding on them - on the truth neither of them dares name.

They pretend, yes. But their bodies don’t lie.

The thread winds tighter. The flame rises higher.

And when they finally collapse together, panting, tangled, skin flushed and hearts pounding in sync, the Circle’s silence says everything.

The ritual is complete.

They are bound.

And neither of them will ever be the same.

The ritual flame gutters to embers, but the heat still clings to the chamber walls. The sigils fade, the golden thread unwinds. The silence feels colder now.

Agatha lies half-curled on her side, propped on one elbow, watching Rio as she redresses with quick, angry precision - shirt half-buttoned, jacket wrinkled from where it had been thrown aside. Her hands shake as she tugs it on.

“You’re welcome,” Agatha says, voice low, amused, dangerous.

Rio doesn’t look at her. “Don’t.”

Agatha sits up, bare shoulders glinting in the candlelight, hair a mess of spell-shocked waves. “Don’t what? Don’t point out that we just saved each other’s lives? Or don’t mention how into it you were by the end?”

Rio turns on her heel. The look she gives could freeze lava. “This was a mistake.”

Agatha raises a brow. “That wasn’t the vibe when your legs were around my waist.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, married.”

That does it.

Rio storms past her, ignoring the watching Circle, ignoring the heat still ghosting her skin. Her boots slam against the stone floor like gunshots. She doesn’t speak again until they’re out in the hall, away from the eyes and the ritual glow and the magic thick as honey.

"You lied to me,” she snaps.

Agatha follows at a languid pace, trailing fingers against the wall. “You knew I would.”

“I didn’t know you’d bind me to you.”

“Would you have said yes if I asked?”

Rio turns. Her back hits the wall. Agatha stops inches away.

They breathe in the same space, neither backing down.

“You used me,” Rio says.

Agatha’s smile falters - just barely. “I protected you. I protected us. Whether you admit it or not, you needed this too.”

Rio shakes her head. Her eyes - burning, bitter, unreadable - flicker to Agatha’s lips. Just for a second. Then away.

“I’m not yours,” she says. Voice low. Unsteady. “Not really.”

Agatha leans in. Her mouth brushes Rio’s ear, soft as a curse. “No. But now you’re mine enough.”

And then she pulls back.

She lets her go.

Rio shoves past her and disappears down the corridor.

Agatha stands there alone in the quiet, heart still pounding with magic and regret.

The bond hums beneath her skin, alive.

She swears she can feel it tug - just faintly - in the direction Rio fled.

Agatha doesn’t chase her.

She could. She could whisper a recall charm and drag Rio back by the collar, trembling and furious. She could cast a glamour over herself and slip into Rio’s dreams tonight - slide into the warmth she left behind like it’s owed.

But no.

Instead, she stands alone in the corridor until the candles snuff themselves out one by one, until the ritual chamber behind her seals itself with a groan of ancient stone.

The bond still hums. Faint, but present. A golden thread knotted to her ribcage, stretching taut toward Rio like a compass that only knows want.

Agatha clenches her fists until her rings bite into her fingers.

"Not yours," Rio had said.

Not yet, Agatha thinks.

She walks the long hallways of the Harkness estate barefoot, her heels dangling from her fingertips. There’s no need to put on a show anymore - not here, not when no one's watching. The wards shift around her like obedient shadows, recognizing their mistress, their queen.

In the solitude of her study, she finally sits.

The mirror on the far wall shimmers. She touches it absently with one painted nail, summoning Rio’s reflection - no sound, just image. The other witch is pacing a room somewhere deep in the guest wing, shoulders rigid, mouth tight, hands moving like she’s talking to herself or throwing up silent shields.

“You’re angry,” Agatha murmurs to no one.

The bond pulses again. Agatha feels the ache of it in her chest. Not pain. Longing. A connection she conjured in a moment of desperation and now can’t sever.

She didn’t lie to the Council. The ritual bound them. The bond is real. But what they don’t know - and what Agatha doesn’t want to name - is the reason it worked so well.

She wants Rio. Has wanted her for far too long. In the same breath she despises her.

And worse - she fears her.

Not for what Rio can do. But for what she makes Agatha feel.

No one makes her feel anything anymore.

Except her.

Agatha pours herself a glass of wine, scarlet and heady, and drinks it in silence. She watches the mirror a little longer, then lets it go dark.

“I give it three days before you come back to me,” she says aloud.

The house answers with a creak. A knowing one.

She smiles.

Then she turns to her desk and begins to write - notes, rituals, protections. Anything to keep her hands busy while the bond tugs softly beneath her skin, whispering mine, mine, mine.

**********

Night falls heavy and restless.

Rio lies awake in the guest room, the sheets too stiff, the room too silent. Her body is tired, but her magic isn’t. It flickers along her spine like a spark looking for dry tinder.

The bond won’t let her sleep.

It throbs low and insistent in her chest, like a second heartbeat - one she doesn’t own.

She tells herself she won’t go.

And then she’s standing outside Agatha’s door.

No sound inside. Just the thick scent of incense and wine and something darker - want, maybe. Or need.

She doesn’t knock.

She opens the door.

Agatha’s on the bed, legs drawn up, wine glass half-full on the table beside her. Her robe hangs loose, violet silk sliding off one bare shoulder. Her hair is a mess of curls. Her eyes are shadowed but sharp.

They stare at each other like they’ve been waiting for this standoff since the second they met.

“You felt it too,” Agatha says softly, voice a breath across candle flame.

Rio doesn’t answer. She steps inside and shuts the door behind her.

Silence stretches. Tension coils. The bond thrums.

Rio’s voice is low, rough: “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know.”

“You tricked me.”

“I do that.”

And still - Rio crosses the room.

And Agatha opens her arms.

They don’t kiss like they did in the ritual. That was a spectacle. This is an ache.

Rio’s hands are on Agatha’s face, sliding into her hair, tugging until their mouths crash together. Teeth, breath, a gasp swallowed between them. Agatha moans, low and broken, as Rio pushes her back onto the bed.

It’s messy. Hungry. Fingers tangled in fabric and hair, legs slipping together, nails raking down spines. They don’t speak - don’t need to. The magic between them says it all.

It flares with every touch.

Every time Agatha bites back a cry against Rio’s throat.

Every time Rio presses her forehead to Agatha’s and just breathes, like she’s trying to remember who she was before this.

Before her.

They fall together over and over, lost in skin and sweat and the scent of magic still clinging to them. Until they can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Only when their breathing slows does the silence creep back in.

Rio lies curled into Agatha’s side, fingers still laced loosely together. Her lips are parted, her eyes closed - but she’s not asleep.

Agatha’s voice is barely a whisper. “You came back.”

Rio says nothing.

But she doesn’t leave.

She stays.

And that’s all the magic needs.

[admrlthundrbolt]

Still Not Dead (Sevika x Chubby Reader)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After being branded Silco's personal tailor. You weren't sure what may come of the arrangement. But as his right hand woman becomes the frequent go between. Well who were you to complain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi guys, I'm back at it again. Having recently watched Arcane season two. My love for Sevika was reignited. She finally got more screen time. And oh boy did she shine.

So without further ado, I hope you enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------

The scowl that had settled on her face had become a constant today. It seemed as if every stop she had made for Silco's sake, was trying to piss her off. A comment here, a challenge to her station there. It really was a shit day. The kind of day she wished the brat had followed her. Maybe then she wouldn't have this seething silence bearing down on her.

But as the last place crossed her mind, her face softened. Sevika usually wasn't the type to grow fond of anyone. It took a lot for a person to worm there way into her heart. Against all odds you had managed to do it. Between your sweet nature and soft body. It was hard to not like you in one way or another.

Stepping into your shop, she took in the scent. Fabric and incense filled her lungs in a pleasant way. You did your best to source new material for your shop. But in the bowels of the lanes that was far and in between. So you made do, between the incense and detailed hand washing. You really put in the work to make what you had great.

This had been what drew Silco to your Tailor shop. Your lovely fabric selection and skill with a needle. It didn't take long for you to become his tailor. Which you didn't argue with. If the King of Zaun wanted you in his fray, you agreed. While it did leave you with a few less customers. It also garnered you protection, along with a steady income. Not a bad deal, especially in the underground.

She hesitated and looked at the entrance of the shop. You weren't in the front. But would she be over stepping boundries if she went through the storage door?

She didn't get long to think about it. Poking your head around the corner, your face lights up. Taking in your flush cheeks and the sweat on your brow. It made her heart flutter for a moment. Seeing you that way made her mind drift to the reasons you could be in that shape. Mentally shaking the thought from her mind, she only caught the end of you sentence.

“perfect timing.” You rushed over and grabbed her arm. Guiding her to the back room with a soft warm grasp. Even as your slightly moist hands wrapped around her arm. She couldn't help but feel admiration. Though this time when you began to speak, she made sure to pay attention.

“You wouldn't believe what they were trying to charge by the yard. But yours truly managed to haggle them down to something more than reasonable. With the new price I happened to buy out their stock." Your free hand gestured wildly. That was another thing she liked. Just how expressive you were. Between the faces or motions you made. You were always showing how you felt. Not putting a wall between yourself and others. The complete opposite to herself really.

“They were kind enough to help me load it on the cart. But in my excitement I didn't consider the unloading. Really you would be a lifesaver if you'd lend a hand.” Bringing her out the back entrance, you stopped by an over stuffed cart. Staring up at her hopefully, you gave her a sheepish smile. “If you don't mind that is.”

Her face burned with a heated flush. Thankful for her darker complexion, she nodded her head. “Of course. It shouldn't take long.” Scooping reams of fabric under each arm. She easily hefted the considerable weight and carried it inside.

You rushed after her, stuttering. “Oooh, you don't have to burden yourself with so many.” You weren't sure what the warmth coating your face was from at this point. While you wanted to blame it on the few spools of cloth you had managed to carry. That didn't stop you from admiring the taut muscle that covered her arm. Or the way her back flexed when she placed the textiles in you storage area. In less time than you had been struggling. She had emptied the entire cart, without even breaking a sweat. A small part of you was jealous. While a much larger part was singing her praises.

“Really, you don't know how long that would have taken me. Is there anything I can do to thank you.”

Shaking her head, a small smile settled on her face. “I was headed here anyway. So it was no problem.” She wanted to add on ‘especially for you'. But her walls wouldn't let the words leave her mouth. Feelings like that were better locked away.

Your eyes widened in remembrance. “Oh right, Silco's order." Darting over to a rack, you gathered a few racks. “The shirts have been reinforced with a layer of wool. I know little Jinx is rough on clothes. Even if they're not her own."

She gazed down at your ernest smiling expression. Wishing she was a bit more selfish and could indulge in your company a bit more. Still your comment made a chuckle squeeze out of her chest. “While that's true, Jinx isn't as little as you remember her.”

Your smile dimmed a touch. “I wish they would come around more. But it's always a joy to spend time with you.” Gazing up at her through your lashes, your smile brightened once more.

Stumbling to gather the clothing, she agreed. Swiftly making her way out of your shop. Heart pounding all the while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't long before she was back in your store. Berating herself all the way at what a fool she was the last trip. But there was no way she would explain how much of an idiot she was to Silco. No, that would give him weeks, if not years, of material to tease her with. They may be close, but that didn't mean she wanted him involved in her love life. As nonexistent as it was.

Still under his orders she was stepping through your door once again. The upper crust of the Zuanites were throwing a gala of sorts. And he expected her by his side. Even if these events were supposed to be peaceful affairs. It didn't hurt to have some muscle with you.

Entering your shop, her heart leapted into her throat. There you were, bent over a pile of fabric. Your plump bottom wiggling enticingly in the air. Shifting through the textiles for something just out of reach. She gave herself only a moment to ogle the scene before her. Then cleared her throat.

With an exclamation, you whirled around in surprise. Holding a hand to your chest, you sighed in relief. There were a lot worst people that could walk in on you in that position. Fanning a hand towards your full face, you made your way to her.

She was tall, broad, and imposing as ever. But that only made the butterflies in your stomach flutter all the same. Between the smell of cigars, oil, and something uniquely her. You had to hide the shiver that ran down your spine.

Wrapping her arm within your own, a habit it seemed. You maneuver her to the back room. “I can't wait to work with you. Really I have so many ideas. It will be quite the challenge to narrow it down to one.”

Once again you had swept her up in your whirlwind. Your warmth and casual compassion flowing over her in a pleasent wave. She welcomed you in like the old friend she wishes she was. It would have been overwhelming with anyone else. But not you, never you.

Shifting her arm a bit, to make it a more comfortable position for yourself. She noticed the way your grip tightened over the newly flexed muscles. Meeting you gaze, one side of her mouth lifts in a crooked grin. “I'm sure you'll make the best choice.” Her ego skyrocketed at the flush that coated your plush cheeks.

The afternoon was filled with measurements and light conversation. It seemed as if both of you wanted to avoid the more political subject at hand. More and more enforcers were showing up in Zuan. It was only a matter of time before blood was spilled.

Instead you focus on the moment and soaked in one another's company. You may have warded away the silence with your chatter. But everytime she had anything to say, you listened whole heartedly. And as you basked in the gentle lull of companionship. The both of you grew closer, emotionally and physically.

You draped the deep red fabric against her skin. You knew the color was a favorite of hers. She never traveled with her crimson cloak. But the rich color you had picked brought out her eyes so well. On top of the embroidered golden details. It made for a sight that got your blood rushing.

Her pulse was pounding. Every touch of your soft talented fingers made her stomach clench. She was sure that you could feel the excess heat coming from her skin. Gazing down at the way you would contort your plush body to work. It was mesmerizing. It caused an anger to well within herself. How many times had Silco offered to get her something made by you. But it made this moment all the sweeter.

Even through all the sensations and feelings. She couldn't help but admire your talent. The way you pinned the fabric upon her. It was something that boggled her. Every adjustment making the textiles transform into a piece of proper clothing.

As you smooth the fabric over her prosthetic arm, she smiled. You gave it just as much respect as the rest of her body. It was something she wasn't used to. Being treated so human, rather than regarded as a weapon. You really were special.

“How did you end up here?” It had slipped out of her mouth. She watched your widening eye shoot up to her own. A somber smile slid into place on your face. Even if it was a sour emotion, she found it still beautiful on you.

Sliding the garment around her waist, you pinned it in a more flattering position. “No matter how hard you work…. It doesn't make a difference if you come from poor beginnings.” The emotions that flashed through your eyes at the statement was heart breaking. But a feeling she was all to familiar with. The people that lived in Piltover wouldn't give you a chance if you came from Zuan.

Then in only a moment, you stood taller and squared your shoulders. “It's there loss though. Haven't you heard, the King of the Underground says I'm the best tailor around.” And with that your usually bright smile returned. Even if it was a bit forced at the corners.

In that moment all of Sevika's reservations began to melt away. You were a pillar of beautiful compassion. This gorgeous being of grace and hospitality. Leaning towards your welcoming aura, she lowered her head forwards. Glancing between your eyes and lips. Her heart jumped furiously when you tilted your head up. Eyes fluttering shut, as you craned towards her lips.

The two of you a mere breathe away, when your door slammed open. “Sevika, Silco needs you.” Jinx's shrill voice rang out in the small shop. Causing both of you to jerk back, as if her voice had shocked the two of you. Making her way to the back, poking and prodding at things along the way. She grinned at your fast hands taking the unfinished clothes off the bruiser. Her smile only widening at the glare that the tall woman sent her way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stumbling her way to your shop. Her breath came out in heavy pants. If she could just see you, it would be OK. This was the lie she told herself. On repeat in her mind. It was the fabrication that kept her from breaking.

Slamming her hand against your shop door. Her last shred of hope hinging on you opening the door.

Swinging it open, you blinked up at her in surprise. She had never visited this late. It was honestly lucky for her that you had fallen asleep at your desk. But as your eyes focused on her, you realized what shape she was in. She was covered in scraps and bruises. Hair messy and out of it's usual half up style. The strands hang, limp and loose in her angular face. And most worrying of all, her mechanical arm was missing.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, you meant to usher her inside. But the moment your soft hand graced her skin. She crumpled into your plush chest. Gathering her as well as you could into your arms. You shut the door with a bump of your foot.

The two of you colapse to the floor, barely out of the entryway. Shuffling her into a bit of a more comfortable position. You threaded your fingers gently through her disheveled locks.

The moment you tucked yourself around her, the damn broke. Tears poured unfettered from her aching eyes.

Gripping you tighter, her voice quivered. “He's dead. Silco is….” She burried her face into your neck. Unable to finish the statement. Not wanting to deal with your expression at the admission. She knew you cared for him as more of a friend than a client.

Your eyes filled with tears. But you didn't pay them any attention as you held her firmly. Cupping her face in your hands, you met her gaze. The sincere look you gave her sent another bout of sobs out of her chest. “We'll get through this. Silco knows how strong you are. But you can lean on me as much as you need.”

She couldn't stand it. Leaning all of her weight on you. Her wet salty lips met your own. Molding together in a slow deliberate fashion. You pulled each other closer, fitting yourself’s together.

Forhead resting against yours, she breathed heavily. “You're the only good thing I have left in this world.”

The tears that tracked down your face were an odd mixture of grief and happiness. Crashing your mouth back on hers. You allowed all your pent up emotions to flow into the kiss.

She met you with the same ferocity. Wishing that he could be there to say ‘I told you so’. But knowing that having you in her arms, pressed into her. Was enough to make her think of a better future.

[kylimarz]

A forgetfull morning

Loki x Reader

~1.7k

In the tower, just fluff, kinda a self indulgent drabble

Warnings: alcohol mention, memory loss vibes, emotional constipation (Loki), minimal pining

Just cute little fun writing I did while in the car on a trip

Loki wakes up with a headache, a blurry memory, and *you* in his bed. Which would be a lot easier to process if he didn’t already lowkey… highkey… like you. As he tries to piece together what happened the night before, he finds himself hoping—just a little—that whatever happened, it meant something. Even if you can’t remember either.

Because maybe it’s not the awkwardness of waking up next to you that gets him—it’s the fact that it doesn’t feel wrong. Not at all.

Loki woke up and immediately decided he wished he hadn’t…

His head throbs painfully from a night he can barely remember. Grabbing mindlessly at the air, he reaches next to where he is laying, searching for his glasses he’ll never let anyone know he wears. His hand grazes something that is very much *not* glasses. Slowly turning to the side, he sees you. Hair messy, mouth open, shirt askew.

Drawing his hand back, he turns quickly, hoping the moment he turned back you’d be gone. Much to his dismay, this wasn’t the case.

Here’s the thing, he tolerates your presence… maybe even likes you… ok definitely likes you, much to his dismay. But he has no idea why you would be in his bed. You are one of the few people he tolerates in this tower. Your powers are similar enough that he can teach you how to control yours, and you let him, even though you definitely don’t need the help. He hopes dearly you two hadn’t done anything last night. That would make things awkward… right? I mean, out of anyone in the tower to spend a night with, you made the most sense. But he’s a god, kind of… Thinking about it, he doesn’t have many reasons to *not* want you in his bed… maybe none. I mean you’re funny, entertaining, loveable, and tolerating of his unruly attitude.

Sure, he likes to wake up early to make sure you bump into each other on the way to the kitchen. He lives for the fact that when you laugh in the morning, it’s a little gravelly from sleep. He wants to be the first to hear you speak every day, and he wants you to be the same for him. And yes, he schedules his training to be at the same time as yours, but that’s just so he can help you with your magic. Maybe he doesn’t mind if you had done something together last night. Maybe he only resents the fact he can’t remember it.

Turning again, no longer ignoring your existence, he gently reaches a hand out to brush a small piece of hair from your mouth. You groan a little in your sleep and he has to stifle a laugh at how utterly *yourself* you are. If he can’t remember last night, maybe you can’t either… and if that’s the case, then he should make the morning less awkward.

Standing gently, he wanders to the kitchen, hoping no one else is awake. Looking around, he starts a pot of coffee, because he might as well, other people are gonna drink it eventually, it’s just more practical this way. Standing in the center of the kitchen, he tries to remember what your favorite breakfast food is. He’s not good at using a stove so eggs aren’t an option. He starts rifling through shelves looking for a waffle maker. He finds nothing.

In a last-ditch effort, he turns to the fridge. Inside he finds a granola bar… why… yogurt, and some fruit. Now *this* seems like something he can figure out. He makes the yogurt bowl quickly and turns as the coffee finishes brewing at the same time. Grabbing a tray, he assembles everything nicely, adding a cup of milk, a cup of juice, and some sweetener for the coffee. Slowly, he starts to lift the tray, which wobbles in his hand, before remembering…he can just lift it with magic. Doing so, he makes his way back to his room and opens the door slowly, hoping you’re still there.

Glancing in, he chuckles as he sees you now starfished in the middle of the bed. He carefully sets the tray on his bedside table and sits next to you in a small space of the bed you don’t currently occupy. As if sensing his presence, your body turns to curl against him. He freezes. He already has no idea what he was gonna say when you woke up, now he doesn’t know what he’s gonna *do.* Should he move?

A small groan leaves your lips and you slowly start to blink your eyes open. Internally, he starts to freak out, having no idea what he should do or say.

Sitting up and meeting his eyes, you give a sleepy grin. He awkwardly smiles in return, his hand fidgeting at his sides.

“Um… good morning, I made food… and coffee,” he can’t help but groan at how awkward he sounds.

You look behind him at the food, smiling wider. “Oooh, thank you!” you say, reaching for him to pass you the tray. Looking down, you giggle at how many cups sit there.

“I couldn’t decide on what drink to grab you so I just grabbed all of them…” he starts to ramble, staring down at the tray and pointing to things, “I couldn’t find a waffle maker so…” and “I know you like this brand of coffee so I made sure to brew that one…”

You place a hand on his fidgeting ones and urge him to meet your gaze. “This looks delicious, thank you. How’d you know I would be so thirsty I’d need three different drinks?” you say, lightening the mood.

He can’t help the genuine smile that rises. He’s glad the morning isn’t awkward. He feels a little forlorn you couldn’t remember the night either.

Pausing after taking a bite, you look up. “OH! How did the movie end, by the way?” you ask.

He just sits there, confused.

“I was so tired after training, I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep. We probably shouldn’t have drank that whole bottle of wine after too,” you say, resuming your eating.

Oh… OH… “I fell asleep too,” he says, chuckling half-heartedly.

Maybe he should be relieved nothing happened between you.

And yet for some reason he’s not…

Guys I had to take a break on writing long for stuff so we have this cute little drabble. Lemme know if you like it!!! First time writing about my bae kind nervous hehe

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

TMNT - Drowning Out

Summary: After their little home is flooded, Splinter tries to salvage what he can but there's not enough left for everyone. Leo tries to pretend he isn't affected.

“What matters, my sons, is that we are all safe.”

Leo rolled his father’s words around over and over and over again in the forefront of his mind, trying to keep them loud and present so as to drown out all of the other thoughts and feelings clamoring for attention. Master Splinter was getting enough of that from Mikey right now, clinging to his arm, imploring him to track down this or that of his beloved belongings somehow as they floundered through what was left of their little home. It wasn’t much, after the flood.

What mattered was that they were safe, Leo told himself, swallowing again and again to break down the lump in his throat as Papa fished a lone toy car from a crevice. All of its wheels had been ripped off, its roof mostly flattened by the water pressure; Mikey stared at it with tears in his eyes, admitting in a small voice that this was only his sixth favorite toy. But he’d still take it, because there was a strained, pleading sort of helplessness in their father’s eyes as he pressed it into his hand because it was the only one he had left to offer. It was something.

Donnie’s security blanket had snagged on some of the debris. It was sodden and heavy with sewage stench and had a sizeable new tear where it had been caught but most of it was still there. Don cried anyway as Splinter wrung it out, swearing up and down that he would patch the hole as soon as they were settled somewhere else, as soon as he could scavenge for the proper tools to repair it, as soon as he reasonably could. Once the remnant of fabric was damp but not dripping, Donnie took it, wadded it up against his plastron and hiccupped to hold his breath against the smell. At least it was something.

It shouldn’t have come as any surprise that Raphie’s “boot bank” survived. The bright, shiny yellow rubber boot he’d dragged home one day was meant to withstand water messes. It should have been a relief—and to Raphie, it was, judging by how fiercely he shook the water out of it and how possessively he held it close—but for some reason Leo felt a sharp, hot twist in his chest that he couldn’t name. Sure, the cool, colorful stones and spare change and stray buttons Raph had stored in the boot had been lost, but he could start a new collection as long as he had the boot to hold them. It was something.

What mattered was that they were safe. The fact that they all had something to latch onto was just a bonus—a bonus Leo was sure he’d appreciate later whenever they found a new niche, a new home. Mikey would have something to occupy his attention, even if it wasn’t his favorite; Donnie would have something familiar and safe through this unexpected, painful change; Raphie would have something that represented the stubbornness to survive no matter what life threw at them.

Leo should be grateful. He should be happy for them.

It’s not like he hadn’t read his books a million times anyway. It’s not like he’d forget them, no matter how many pages had been soaked and stained and shredded beyond recognition, no matter how far they had been swept away. His brothers had been lulled to sleep by Splinter’s rich reading voice so many times, while Leo strove to stay awake for just one more chapter, just two more chapters, just a little while longer; he wouldn’t mind if Splinter doubled back to catch the others up on the plot they had missed tomorrow night, he’d love to hear it with them all over again, to see their first time reactions. He had learned to read for himself with those books, tracing each word with the care it deserved, because someone out there had cared enough to put them all down for him to see and feel and imagine. He had read them to his brothers so many times to distract them when they were sick or hurt. Every time he was sick or hurt or the others were bickering and he didn’t want to be involved, he had escaped the aching and noise between the lines, off on adventures he could never have for real.

He wouldn’t just forget that.

But he really should, he had to, because they were gone now and Papa said in the big scheme of things that it didn’t matter. What really mattered was that the family was safe. That was all Leo was going to get and he had to be grateful for it.

He was, of course. If he had to choose between his books or his brothers, he’d obviously pick his brothers every time. So he should be happy for them. There shouldn’t be this twisting, writhing heat kindling in his gut as Mikey and Donnie cried like babies. They should consider themselves lucky they had anything to hold onto. They were all he had to hold onto and he didn’t want to make them cry any harder so he took their free hands and squeezed them very tightly, impressing the importance of it into his head and onto his heart as hard as he could—Be grateful. Be happy. Be grateful. Be happy. We’re safe. That’s something. Smile—until the fire in his stomach and behind his eyes simmered down enough that he could speak without a sob or a scream.

“Donnie, Mikey, please don’t cry.” Just shush up and stop crying already! You shouldn’t get to cry. Why do you get to cry and I don’t? “It’ll be okay.” It’s not okay, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not! But it will be, probably, once I can cheer you up. (They’re just little, they don’t know. You can’t cry and cheer them up at the same time. That’s your job as the big brother so just keep smiling.) “Like Papa said, we’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Even if Don and Mikey’s tears didn’t stop right away, they did slow, and once they were quieter a teeny tiny bit of the strain in their father’s face eased so Leo must have done the right thing.

That was something.

It was a little strange to him then, that as they sloshed exhaustedly through the cold water in search of a new place to sleep for the night, Papa nudged Leo a little further ahead of the others so they wouldn’t overhear them over their own sighs and sniffles. “I am sorry I could not salvage any of your belongings as I could the others’, Leonardo…” he murmured. “I know some of those things were very dear to you.”

The fire surged right back up through his body at those words, head to toe. For a split second he desperately wanted to clamber into his father’s arms, hide his face away from the cold, wet, cruel world in his warm shoulder and just cry and cry and cry until he couldn’t catch his breath for even one more sob—maybe until even his brothers would forget their own sadness and care about him more, squeeze his hand and shush him gently and tell him it would be alright. His vision blurred and burned dangerously at the idea but that wasn’t their job. It was his. He should just be glad Papa was acknowledging his loss, when it mattered so little in the big picture. As far as Leo knew, he couldn’t be grateful and be sad at the same time so he kept his gaze down until it cleared again.

“It’s okay,” he assured softly, forcing a shrug so Splinter’s hand slipped off. It’s not.

Had he looked up, he would have seen the sorrow and uncertainty that crossed Splinter’s face at his reticence. “…Your brothers have already made their requests for my next scavenging trip. Is there anything you would like me to look for?” he ventured tentatively. “A new book, perhaps?”

More than anything he wanted his books back but no matter how empty the offer of a new one felt, it would be stupid of Leo to say no to the opportunity. “…Yes, please, Papa. Thank you.” The others hadn’t thanked their father for rescuing their things, he couldn’t help but notice, but they were not a part of this conversation so he said it on their behalf. Wordlessly Splinter put his paw back on his shoulder and Leo couldn’t bring himself to shrug away again.

Raphie would have new rocks, pennies and buttons to refill his boot bank and he would be satisfied. Leo would have new books in which to bury himself away from thinking about the old ones, even if he could never forget. He may not be satisfied but more importantly, he would be grateful.

It was better than nothing.

~~~~~~~~

A/N: *pats Leo's head* This bad boy can fit so much "Imposing responsibilities upon myself that I don't actually need to at this age because I too am a baby but I've misinterpreted the adult's words and don't know how to feel more than one emotion at once yet - because, again, I am but a baby - so I'll just get into the habit of deprioritizing how I feel because I consider myself just that teensy bit older and masking it all for the others' sake probably makes me better and stronger and more mature" in him :'D

[kellymagovern]

[x]

[unwelcome-ozian]

[chestersbraincell]

You see, now we play this silly little game of “have I let go and moved on orrrrr have I successfully repressed all my emotions about the situation”

[capybaramurdock]

Red Ring Series ♡Chapter Fourteen♡

“The Menu and the Misunderstanding” (Matt POV – 13 Days Until the Wedding)

"You didn’t have to make a scene, but you could’ve said something. Anything. She’s not asking you to fight her father physically. She just needed to know you were on her side."

Summary: The wedding menu tasting is supposed to be a simple event—just one more task checked off the long list. But when she suggests a dish with deep personal meaning, hoping to share a memory of her mother, her father quickly shuts her down. And Matt? Matt says nothing.

She offered him something small but tender. And when she needed him most, he stayed silent.

And Karen, once again, is a true MVP.

⚠️Warnings⚠️️: ~ Emotional hurt/comfort ~ Silent treatment/emotional withdrawal ~ Parental emotional manipulation (mild) ~ Mention of deceased parent (mother) ~ Brief reference to food insecurity ~ One (1) Catholic man spiraling in guilt™

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Want to read on ao3? Available there too! 🫶🏻

The next day, the two of them find themselves in one of her father's cars on the way to a fancy, uppity resort that offers catering somewhere upstate to taste and pick out their options for the menu. Usually, the ride would feel long and tedious. But today, she’s bright. Chattier than usual.

“So, I know Karen described my dress to you a little bit. It’s mostly white, but, as she said, it has embroidered wildflowers along the bottom, waist, and sleeves. The colors are very autumnal. Do you think you’d want to wear a suit that’s white with details to match the wildflowers or a black suit with details to match the wildflowers?”

He tilts his head at the question, considering it. “Hmm…” he hums, signaling he’s listening. A moment passes before he responds.

“Since they’re autumnal colors, instead of black or white, what about gray… oh, or brown? Perhaps a darker brown? Do you think either of those would match? I always think of brown when I think of Autumn, like when I could see leaves as a kid.”

Her breath catches slightly, a subtle yet unmistakable sign to him. There’s a spark of energy in the way her voice lifts with excitement.

“Oh! I think a dark brown would match perfectly, actually! Who knew you were such a fashionista, huh?”

And then she giggles. A soft, warm sound that practically wraps around him.

God, he’s so done for with her.

He chuckles genuinely, nudging her playfully. “Are you really telling me that after all this time, seeing me in my spiffy, coordinated lawyer suits, you’re just now realizing how much of a true man of fashion I am?”

Another giggle. And that’s it—he’s warm all over.

“Oh yes, I can’t believe I forgot how much of a diva you are, Matt!”

The rest of the drive is filled with light teasing and gentle laughter, the kind that soaks into your ribs and settles there.

When they arrive at the resort, her father’s voice greets them, and Matt notes the smugness tucked beneath the pleasantry, faint but undeniable. He knows that tone. It grates like a whisper behind a mask.

They’re escorted into the restaurant area, and just before they reach the table, she tugs at his hand.

Then, she laces her fingers with his.

Her pulse is quick beneath his thumb, jittery and tense. Whether from her father’s presence or the boldness of reaching for him, he doesn’t know. But he wants to ground her.

He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and when they reach the table, he pulls out her chair for her. Small things. Anchoring things.

As they settle in, one of the event staff offers menus. A voice apologizes—no braille menu available.

But before Matt can respond, she’s already jumped in, quietly beginning to read the offerings to him. Her voice is calm and patient, touching each word and pausing in certain spots like she’s laying down stones for him to walk across.

She reads through the arrival station of the diamond package. He can tell she’s scanning ahead—her cadence changes, a pause, a more extended breath.

She shifts slightly in her seat before addressing her father.

“All of these entrée options sound nice. The beef striploin and spiced rack of lamb would probably do well… but do you think… could we maybe see if the chefs would do a chicken parmesan dish for one of the options, y’know, for—”

She’s cut off mid-thought.

“Absolutely not,” her father says, dismissive and sharp. “That’s way too simple and not on brand enough for this wedding. I’m already letting you have a simple aspect by having it in that corner church. Your menu has to be elegant enough, at least.” He laughs—a dry, cruel sound that echoes in the room. “And really? Chicken parmesan? That sounds like something to be served to a child. Or as a special at a soup kitchen.”

There’s the soft scrape of a pen as the event planner strikes the dish from their notepad. The suggestion is gone, a stark reminder of her father's actual control over the wedding planning.

Her heartbeat stutters. She swallows hard. And then…she turns toward him.

She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel it—a silent plea for support, an expectation.

He offers a small, careful smile. But says nothing.

He reaches out, trying to offer comfort with his touch, to close the distance in a way he couldn’t with words.

But she doesn’t respond.

Her fingers remain still in his for a beat…and then slowly slip away.

She nods politely to her father. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight. Just…goes quiet.

The rest of the tasting moves forward. They sample hors d’oeuvres, a plated salad, and several entrée options. She reads descriptions when needed and answers when prompted. But her voice is thinner now. Mechanical.

When the menu is finalized and repeated back to them, Matt has to nudge her slightly.

She startles—just a fraction—before murmuring, “Yeah, that all sounds lovely, thank you.”

As soon as they’re dismissed, she bolts out the door in a blink, her bag rustling as she digs for her phone.

She still tells the staff goodbye politely. But her tone’s different. Dimmed.

Matt shifts in his seat, unease creeping under his skin. He tries to push it down. It’s just food, right?

And he can convince himself of that, even when she hardly speaks to him in the car on the way back, only giving him polite responses. 

He continues to think that until they make it back to the apartment.

She disappears into the bathroom. The sound of the shower kicks on, and then his phone rings.

Karen.

She starts in on him before he even has a chance to realize what she's talking about. 

“Matt, what did you do?”

He frowns immediately at Karen’s sharp tone, sitting up straighter on the couch.

“I… I genuinely don’t know. What did I do? I didn’t even know I had done anything.”

He hears her sigh over the line. Not exasperated—just disappointed. Tired.

“She texted me.”

Matt’s brows draw together. “Texted you?”

Karen’s voice is a little gentler now, but it doesn’t lose its weight. “Almost right after you all finished, but before you left. She said she didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I could tell something was wrong. Her message was short. Polite. I asked how it went, and she just said it was ‘fine.’”

Matt leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“It was fine,” he says softly. “Her father shut down a suggestion she made, that’s all. I didn’t think—”

“Matt,” Karen cuts in, voice firm now, “she suggested something sentimental. Something personal. I could tell just from the way she typed about it. She was excited. Nervous. And you let him laugh at her. Shut her down. Called it childish. And you didn’t say a word.”

Matt swallows hard. His jaw clenches. “I didn’t want to escalate anything. It didn’t seem worth—”

“It was worth it to her.”

Karen’s voice cracks slightly, just enough to hurt.

“You didn’t have to make a scene, but you could’ve said something. Anything. She’s not asking you to fight her father physically. She just needed to know you were on her side.”

Matt is silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly: “I didn’t realize it meant that much.”

Karen exhales slowly. “Matt…she was gonna explain why it mattered.”

He stills, every muscle tensing. “What do you mean?”

“I asked her,” Karen says gently. “After she texted me. She told me she was going to explain the reason behind the dish, that it was somehow tied to her mom. But her dad cut her off and steamrolled over her before she could finish the sentence.”

Matt’s brow furrows. His voice is soft, almost pleading. “Karen, I didn’t know. I—I didn’t realize it was about her mom.”

Karen snaps—just a little, her voice growing even firmer. Not out of anger, but from hurt for her. “Even if you didn’t, Matt, come on. I'm sure you could hear it in her voice, how damn excited she was, and how nervous she was to ask. That should’ve been enough. You didn’t need the backstory to know it meant something. I know you had to have sensed it in that moment.”

His jaw clenches, breath catching.

Karen softens again, this time quieter. “She was trusting you with something tender. Something that still aches.”

Silence.

“She doesn’t offer things like that lightly. And if she was tying that dish to a memory of her mom? Matt, that wasn’t just a suggestion. That was a piece of her.”

Another pause.

“You don’t have to be perfect. But you can’t be silent when it matters. Not with her.”

He leans back slowly, running a hand over his face.

“She pulled away from me,” he admits, voice quiet and ragged. “I tried to hold her hand, I thought what her father said was rude and was trying to comfort her about that, and she just…let go.”

There’s a long pause on Karen’s end. Then:

“Because she felt alone in that moment. Because she was.”

Silence.

“She’s still in the shower,” Matt murmurs after a while, guilt pooling in his chest like lead. “She hasn’t really spoken since.”

Karen softens, just a little. “Then make it right.”

Matt’s brows pull together. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But if you want her to keep trusting you, if you want her to stay, you need to show her that her feelings matter. That she matters. More than keeping the peace. More than politeness. More than optics.”

Karen sighs before she adds. “You’ve still got time to show her that you see her in your own way. That you care.”

There’s silence on the other end.

Matt’s voice is quiet. “…Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ve gotta run,” she says gently. “But just think about what matters to her. That’s where you’ll find your answer.”

The call ends.

Matt stands there for a long moment, the phone still in his hand, the silence around him pressing in.

And then it hits him.

That moment—just days ago—when they sat going over the guest list in the kitchen.

Her voice had gone soft. “My mom passed when I was young, too. It was part of what caused my dad to become…what he is now.”

He hadn’t pushed and hadn’t asked for more. But he remembers the way she said it. Like it hurt. Like it shaped everything that came after.

And now, oh God.

Chicken parmesan.

She wasn’t just suggesting something she liked.

She was seeking a sense of comfort, for a memory. A part of her mother, she wanted to be present that day.

And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

His throat goes tight. Guilt rolls over him in a wave, hollow and immediate.

He hears the faucet of the shower shut off; he grabs his phone and dials as fast as he can, before he can even think.

Foggy barely has time to say “hello” before Matt blurts:

“Do you know how to make chicken parmesan?”

A/N: Here is the wedding dress for those that were curious!!

[bodyhorror-bimbo]

I’m a bubbly person. But I’m actually shit at sharing my emotions. I’ll talk about bad things in my life. But I won’t talk about how they make me feel. Or even let myself feel it. I’ll just say I’m fine or okay.

Just cause my life isn’t actively traumatic right now. Doesn’t mean things can’t suck. Or I can’t be feeling bad emotions.

I need to work on that. I rather be tinged with sorrow and pain than be a shell of joy and hope.

[hotpotdragon]

Carol (2015)

[satorugojoisamenace]

"The Buffalo"

I'm running, running, and running.

It's chasing, chasing, and chasing.

It's an endless spiral,

A futile attempt to escape the inevitable.

I can stop running,

Confront and tie it down before it gets enraged.

Or one day it will catch up.

It's horns will pierce straight into my soul,

Leaving me with scars that wouldn't heal.

But how can I confront it-

When all I know is to run from it.

[b0tsbby]

It only concerns me a little bit I haven’t really seen a written introspection on Stampede Knives’ character, specifically him. 98 is 98 and Maximum Knives has enough elitists on his case to cover him, definitely not a fan favourite but people have broken him down.

I’m aware of how disliked he is, Stampede that is, but it really is something. Could I write it, and could I kill an analysis of him? Most likely. I’ve been injecting the character into my veins, breathing him in and out for a year, every incarnation of him.

But I’m so curious to see someone else do it. Curious to see if someone else will do it…Maybe to convince myself I’m not a complete fool, or stuck in delusion. Maybe to find someone else that got it.

Hate and disdain, is something I’ll never protect him from. He’s an asshole. But man, even he doesn’t deserve the shallow reading of him that’s too widely accepted I think.

But who am I to say what is and isn’t…